Time Enough
by Night Monkey
Summary: Two captains walk into a bar. One gets shot in the face. The other learns a thing or two about inanimate objects.


I've been meaning to do a _Torchwood_ fic for some time now, and finally found the inspiration. I hope you enjoy it.

Just to cover my bases, this fic contains mild slash. If you're a _Torchwood _fan, I can't imagine you'll be scarred by it.

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Everything happens to everybody sooner or later if there is time enough. - George Bernard Shaw

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There were only so many dark, seedy bars in the Milky Way galaxy, and it was only a matter of time before chance, loneliness and old drinking habits shuffled Captain Jack Harkness and Captain John Hart through the same door. They arrived an hour apart, chose different ends of the bar, and only became aware of each other's presence after a drunken, ill-tempered alien looking for a fight shot Jack in the face before he could defend himself.

Following the single shot and the erasure of everything between Jack's lips and forehead, a total hush infiltrated the bar. A moment ago the room had been so loud conversation had to be made at a shout. Now it looked more like a photograph, unmoving subjects preserved forever in the same pose.

The shocked silence lasted for a few seconds before a Judoon that had been sitting next to Jack—and was now wearing a good portion of his blood and some of his nasal cartilage—turned towards the gunman and disposed of him. The Judoon discharged his weapon a single time, turning Jack's murderer into a pile of ashes.

"Go jo ko wo-fo," the Judoon said. Justice served, the rhinoceros-like alien returned to his seat and wiped the blood from his face with a towel the bartender handed him.

The Judoon was satisfied with meting out his species' swift and merciless brand of justice and showed no interest in disposing of either the ashes of the murderer or the corpse of the murdered. So he wouldn't have to do it himself or summon any outside authorities to take care of it, the bartender looked for someone to claim at least the identifiable body.

"Anybody know him? Hey, anybody come in with the dead guy?"

The "dead guy" sat up and took a shuddering breath. The bartender had seen some weird shit in his day, but he'd never seen a man resurrected after losing most of his face. The only logical reaction to such a miracle was to scream like a little girl and then faint.

If Jack's gasp of sudden life didn't turn every eye towards him, the bartender's shriek and subsequent collapse did the job. Jack swiveled around in his seat and eyed the crowded room. He heard a harsh snort at his left and remembered the Judoon. Coming back from the dead wasn't against the law, as far as Jack knew, unless the Judoon had taken it upon himself to start enforcing the laws of nature and physics, which definitely demanded the dead stay that way.

"So fo jojo mo," the Judoon said.

"Uh." Jack's mind went blank. He'd never been very fluent in the language of the Judoon, and everything he did know seemed to have slipped away.

"So _fo_ jojo mo," the Judoon repeated with greater emphasis.

"It wasn't as bad as it looked? I'm a wizard? That's never happened to me before?" None of Jack's excuses calmed the Judoon, or anyone else in the bar.

"I…"

"He was just leaving."

Jack felt hands roughly grasp his shoulders and wrest him from his barstool. Not one to take being manhandled lightly—unless he gave permission first, that was—Jack tore himself out of the would-be bouncer's grip and turned around to face him.

"Miss me?"

Before Jack could respond, a pair of lips was locked onto his and the hands were back, this time pawing at the lapels of his coat. The surprise wore off quickly and Jack gently but firmly pushed his amorous attacker away.

Seeing the formerly dead man snogged by what they all assumed was a stranger did not make the bar patrons completely forget about Jack's resurrection, but it did serve as a worthy distraction. Someone hooted in approval, which was a major improvement over the wary, dangerous taciturnity displayed following Jack's return. A crowd that cheered you on was far less likely to decide you were an aberration that needed to be removed from the universe than a crowd that gave you the collective evil eye.

"What are you doing?" Jack whispered.

"Making sure no one else kills you. Now let's go. Wait, you go, I've got one more thing I've got to do here. And one thing I'd like to do, but probably won't, thanks to you," John replied, nudging Jack towards the door.

Jack decided not to overstay his welcome and walked from the bar as nonchalantly as a man who had died on the premises could exit. Once outside he loitered near the entrance, not close enough to be seen from inside, but close enough to watch the door.

Five minutes later, and accompanied by what sounded like the displeased snarls of a huge feline, John ran from the bar with a sloshing glass clutched in his hand. Something, probably whatever had been doing to hissing and spitting, had taken its claws to the side of his face. The injuries were superficial and John hardly seemed aware of them.

"Word of advice, not that you'd need it, I'm sure. Catkind do not like being dumped, especially after you've spent all night making the little pussy purr," John said.

"That's what took you so long? You had to tell a cat that you found something better?" Jack asked.

"The cat was a sidebar. This was the real reason." John held up his salvaged glass. "Ever had one? It's like having your brain smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped around a large gold brick."

"I'll pass."

"I won't." John downed the drink and then quivered with exquisite pleasure. Knowing how high John's tolerance for alcohol was, Jack wondered exactly what that drink had contained. It was probably one of the underground, illegal cocktails that popped up in the more lawless parts of the galaxy and left a trail of alcoholism, divorce, and shriveled livers in their wake.

John fished the olive from the bottom of the glass and popped it into his mouth. The glass had served its purpose and now that it contained no more delicious, alcohol-marinated morsels, John threw it to the ground.

Having stolen the bar's property, destroyed said property, and created a hazard by way of the glass strewn-field, John decided it really was time to move on. He began to walk away from the lights of the bar—the only lights for miles, as far as Jack could tell—and Jack decided to follow.

"So, Captain Jack, what brings you to this little backwater ball of rock?" John asked as the only signpost of civilization, if that den of villainy and lax gun control laws could be called civilized, faded behind them.

"I was kicked off my transport ship. They were nice enough not to maroon me in the desert," Jack replied.

"Who'd you shag? Captain's daughter?"

"First-mate's brother."

"Handsome?"

"In his own way. He had tentacles."

"Aren't you lucky? You'll never guess what I shagged to get here."

"Give me a hint. I'll be going through the animal kingdom until next year, otherwise."

"A bloody statue."

Jack snorted. "What was it? Some sort of sacred idol you defiled?"

"Not this time. It was just a statue of an angel. That's what it was pretending to be, at least."

"How can a statue pretend to be anything? And how did shagging it land you here?"

To Jack's surprise he found John suddenly clinging to him, nuzzling at his neck and petting him in a way that did not suggest sobriety. Maybe that drink, whatever it had been, was really starting to addle the former Time Agent.

"No, no cuddling. Tell me about that statue," Jack said, fending John off with one hand.

"I'm doing better than telling, I'm showing. Now stand there and let me demonstrate."

Jack rolled his eyes. Of all the stupid ploys… Moronic and shameful or not, Jack acquiesced and pretended he was made of stone.

As soon as Jack took up the role of the molested statue, John resumed the groping. He took Jack's chin lightly in his cupped hand and ran the other hand down Jack's cheek, as though brushing away tears. The immortal Captain Harkness wondered two things: had John learned this from _Casablanca_, and why had he never been this tender while he and Jack had been trapped for years in a time loop?

John, even with untold hours of involuntary sex rehab in his past, couldn't limit himself to gentle caressing for long. His hands left Jack's face and began exploring his clothes, burrowing first under his greatcoat and then, after undoing a single button, moving beneath his shirt. As his hands roved across Jack's chest, John pressed himself closer to his former partner. Jack was hot, human, and familiar even after all these years. John closed his eyes and rested his head against Jack's shoulder.

Jack could restrain himself no longer. He broke character and reached for John's head, meaning to run his finger through John's hair. The second he touched John, however, the man whirled away from him. Jack recoiled in surprise as John threw himself on the ground, rolled over onto his stomach, and began to make the most over-the-top vomiting sounds Jack had ever heard.

"What in the hell was that about? Did you hit your head recently? Oh, and we both know you haven't got a gag reflex, so stop it," Jack said.

"For your information, that was an accurate reenactment of actual events." John got to his feet and straightened his jacket, a souvenir of the Napoleonic Wars. "And shut your mouth about the gag reflex."

"Fine, forget I said anything. But what was that supposed to be?"

"I wish I knew. All I do know is that one minute I was getting frisky with one lovely stone lady, and the next I felt like I'd been turned inside out. Remember the first time you used your vortex manipulator? Imagine that, but about a hundred times worse," John replied.

"Sounds like a bad hangover. You were drunk, you know," Jack said.

"Right, but not even I can get so plastered I time-travel."

"What?"

John held out his wrist, pulled back the sleeve of his jacket, and revealed his vortex manipulator. "Check the date logs."

Jack scrolled through a weeks' worth of data. Until five days ago, the numbers were linear, but they were also for fifty-three years in the future. Abruptly, and with no indication the vortex manipulator had been used to initiate the travel, the dates leapt back to their present time.

"And you think the statue somehow did this?" Jack asked. "How can a statue _do_ anything except stand there?"

John shrugged. "Too bad your little Scooby Gang isn't here to investigate."

The look on Jack's face made John wish he'd never broached the subject. If the hurt in Jack's eyes was anything to go off of, there had been few, if any, survivors of Jack's precious Torchwood team.

"You're right, they aren't, but do you think this statue is dangerous?" Jack wasn't sure if he was up for a mystery, but hunting down some statue that was in possession of temporal powers was better than remembering.

"I don't know, and frankly, it doesn't matter."

"Wasn't valuing life something they taught you in murder rehab?"

"Wouldn't know. I escaped before the first group therapy session. That isn't even what I meant, anyway. In fifty years, there won't be anyone left on the whole planet, except the occasional treasure hunter. Suppose the statue didn't realize it was losing its last chance for a decent shag," John said.

"By treasure you mean weapons. Because in fifty years this planet fights a short, nasty war with the Sontarans, and after that there are all kinds of goodies just lying around."

Weapons were exactly what John meant, but he hadn't spent two days scraping through a graveyard of crashed spaceships in the middle of the desert just to have Jack confiscate his loot. He hastily steered the conversation away from the lethal device he may or may not have had holstered within easy reach and brought the angelic statue back to the forefront.

"The only thing I found was that statue. If I hadn't been tossed back in time, I might have found something worth the sunburn," John replied.

Jack was almost positive John had found far more than the mysterious angel, but he decided not to press it. He'd already been shot in the face once, and while John might not have been as heartless as he once was, he knew Jack never stayed dead and probably wouldn't feel particularly bad about putting a few holes in him.

"There was one thing about the statue, though, that reminded me of you," John said.

"It was sexy as hell?"

"It looked like the saddest, loneliest bastard in the universe."

Jack had no reply to that assertion. He had not met every sad, lonely bastard in the universe, but he doubted there were very many immortals out there who had to watch everyone they loved die, often prematurely.

"All of forever and nobody to share it with. You should stay here for fifty years, try not to let the Sontarans kill you too many times or they'll catch on, and then find that angel. You're made for each other," John said.

"I'm not waiting here for fifty years," Jack responded.

"Why not? It isn't like you haven't got eternity."

"That doesn't mean I'm going to waste it on drinking myself to death until this planet is invaded by killer potato people."

"What are you going to do, then? Find another ship, another cabin boy, and see where the solar winds take you?"

"Do you have any better suggestions? Asides from having sex with rocks, that is?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. Have sex with me."

Jack sighed. "We've been over this."

"I'm not saying marry me and keep me company in my old age. Give me a night. One night out of a trillion. Is that asking so much?"

Jack was silent.

"For old time's sake? Please?"

"One night. As long as you hand over whatever relics from the war you found."

"Fine. In the morning."

Before Jack could respond, John had tackled him to the ground. Jack was not given an opportunity to stand for a very long time.

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The End!

Thanks for reading.


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